


Three Years to the Day

by Amethyst_and_flowers117



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien Agreste Needs Help, Angst, Depression, Drama, F/M, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Marriage Proposal, Memory Loss, Pining, Sex, Single Parents, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25572106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst_and_flowers117/pseuds/Amethyst_and_flowers117
Summary: Three years to the day it's been since Marinette gave up the Miracle Box, costing her all memory of her time as Ladybug and tearing her family apart. Now Adrien, a single dad, struggles to raise their three kids as he sinks deep into depression and struggles to explain to them why their mom left seemingly out of nowhere--but it's these very things that cause him to wonder if there could be a way to bring her back.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	1. The Garden Rock

Three Years to the Day

Chapter One: The Garden Rock

Baby Emma was something of an anomaly the first year and a half or so that we had her: it took her quite a while to start showing that first little patch of hair, but I swear that when she did we spent every spare moment literally bent over her crib like she was some kind of lab experiment. Housekeeping stuff started getting neglected, and the sink got so full that the only thing that got us to actually load the dishwasher was the resounding crash of three of Marinette’s favorite dishes shattering against the floor. 

But since the few hairs Emma did have were so blonde you could barely see them, Marinette just assumed she’d bear my resemblance when she got older. There was also the gap in Emma’s teeth when they came in—that was something to contend with. But I don’t know. I had this weird, unexplainable prediction that when she did finally grow up, she’d be the spitting image of her mother. 

And I was right. 

Ten years later, and sometimes I swear I’m looking at a little Marinette running around the apartment, or slumped on the couch, or practically falling asleep at the counter while I hurry to make her breakfast before it’s time for school. She radiates Marinette’s nervous energy, always finding a reason to freak out or even start sporadically jumping up and down (and I’m just infinitely grateful that I’ve already had tons of practice interacting with someone like this). She doesn’t wear her hair in pigtails like Mari did, because “that’s so ten years ago” and of course a girl living under the “Agreste legacy” must always be in touch with what’s new and trendy (I’ve been trying to deconstruct this for her, although I’m not sure it’s working). But her fishtail braid is just as soft and just as blackish blue. And her eyes are just as ocean-like. 

To be fair, the boys do look at least a little bit like me—well, like my mother I should say. Super pale with super thin faces. And they’ve got her green eyes for sure. I consider myself abundantly fortunate that I’ve got three kids who remind me everyday of the two most amazing women to ever walk the planet. 

“Dad,” Emma eventually gets through to me after having to literally wave her hands over my face. It’s 3:00 on a Saturday so I already know what they’re going to ask. It’s so hot outside, but so boring inside, and they want me to take them to Aunt Chloé’s house for a swim. “It’s so hot outside, but so boring inside. Can we go swimming at Aunt Chloé’s house?” 

And of course Hugo and Louis start up with the “Yes, dad, please please please can we?” 

I’ve just now settled into my spot on the couch after a long, arduous day of sitting at my computer going through emails. And if I had more of a backbone or was naive enough to think that they wouldn’t give me hell for saying no, then maybe I would say no. 

But I do enjoy being the cool and generous dad.

“Go get your stuff ready,” I tell them. 

And just like that they’re practically tripping over each other, in a hurry to change into their swimsuits and scrape some towels and sunscreen together.

It’s so obvious who they get their clumsiness and franticness from. 

About fifteen minutes pass, and the three of them waddle back into the living room in all their awkward, inflatable, unreasonably priced swimwear glory: Hugo’s got on these Calvin Klein swim trunks that his sister picked out for him (okay I get that Emma wants us to shop high end, but did she have to go with the pair that literally has tacky studded jewels around the waistline? Sorry, must be the ex-model talking). And Louis’s arms look extra chubby in the little floaties he’s got on. 

“Louis,” I try not to hurt his feelings because he can be sensitive, “Bud, you know you don’t have to actually put those on until we get to Chloé’s house, right?” 

“I know. But they’re fun to flail my arms around in,” and he proceeds to demonstrate. 

“You’re gonna get hot in the car. It’s a twenty minute car ride.” 

“No I won’t,” he insists, “I’m bringing the squirt bottle.” 

I can’t for the life of me understand it, but somehow it makes them feel extra lively and summery to carry this little pink squirt bottle around the house, even in winter time—the only reason I have it is because sometimes I’m too busy or too lazy to properly water each and every plant we have. But for them it’s more like a water gun or something they can sneak up on each other with. 

“Alright,” I shrug, “Well let’s head out.” 

I’m always really grateful that Chloé decided to stay in the area. Straight out of college she was originally planning to meet up with her mother in New York, but for whatever reason that fell through. Her dad is still the mayor, and it seems to me that she’s still quite dependent on him, despite always touting herself as a “woman of stature and independence” or however she phrases it. She’s got her own business now—a little independently owned boutique in the city—although I’m fairly certain her dad is the one putting up the funds for it. 

“Look, Dad,” Emma diverts my attention away from the road. She’s the oldest, so she gets to sit in the passenger seat right next to me. “I’m wearing the necklace Aunt Chloé made me. Do you think she’ll notice?” 

“I’m sure she will. She loves to see people wearing the stuff that she designed.”

“Like your purse?” Hugo slaps my shoulder and him and his brother burst into a fit of laughter. 

“Yes,” I roll my eyes at them in the rear view mirror, “Like my purse.” Duffel bag, I think to myself. Just a very stylish and not-exactly-masculine-looking duffel bag. 

Eighteen minutes and about eleven grueling purse jokes later, we pull through the maximum security gate and into Chloé’s winding driveway. The kids want to come over so much that at a certain point Chloé just gave me her passcode and an open invitation to come over any time. 

She does have quite the nice pool—one of those long and peanut-shaped ones surrounded by a giant hedge of plants, and it’s got a little jacuzzi with a waterfall running into the pool—Louis just likes to sit there and run his fingers through it for hours at a time. And Chloé and I usually just hang out in her little outdoors lounge area. 

As soon as I park, they’re dashing for the pool so fast that they’re losing goggles and flip flops. I know it’s because they want to get out of my very thorough sunscreen application. 

“Hey!” I chase after them, “No one gets in the pool until I’ve sprayed them.”

“Ughhh,” Hugo stomps, “Dad the sun’s not even shining.” 

“Not right now, but it will in about an hour,” I shake the sunscreen bottle and direct him towards the house, “Up against the wall.” 

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite little munchkins!” I can hear the double glass doors open then slam shut. 

“Aunt Chloé!” 

“Hey there, pretty princess! I see you’re wearing the necklace I made you,” she digs down deep and musters all her strength to lift Emma into the air. They get along well because of their love for fashion. Her and the boys, not so much, although she’s hoping she can change that through a little “Style education time with Aunt Chloé.” 

“Hey, Chlo,” I say, not even having to look as I cover every inch of Hugo in sunscreen. 

“Adrikens,” she greets me. It’s become less of a creepy thing and more of a sisterly thing over the years. “I was hoping you’d bring them over today. I’ve got a new dress made that will look amazing on Emma, and some shoes for the boys.” 

“Are you sure? You sure have been giving them a lot of new stuff lately.” 

“Well of course I’m sure! I mean how could I not be?” She puts a hand on Emma’s face and squeezes her cheeks in—sometimes I think she thinks of them more like novelties or pets than actual human children. “Emma here is just a little model. I’m serious, Adrien, you should start her modeling right now while she’s still young.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“But Dad,” Emma whines, “Why not?”

“Yeah, Dad, why not?” Chloé mimics her, clearly trying to get me to rethink my stance. 

“Because,” I reiterate for the billionth time, “Modelling isn’t a real job. It takes up all your time, and you’ll always be trying to look prettier than you already do naturally.” 

“No I won’t.” 

“Yes you will. Trust me, it can’t be helped. Besides, modeling comes with a lot of strict eating limitations,” I stoop down to meet her at eye level, “Think you can give up Grandpa’s cherry turnovers?” 

Chloé just laughs, but Emma looks lost in thought, seriously wondering to herself if that could even be possible. 

“Now up against the wall, you.” 

I spray her and Louis down, and after five minutes of standing with their arms outstretched, waiting for the sun to bake the sunscreen into their skin, they all jump into the pool (well, Hugo’s was really more of an agonized belly flop). 

“Want anything to drink?” Chloé asks, pulling a cooler out from under the table, “I’ve got waters and some iced tea from the supermarket.” 

“I’ll take an iced tea.” 

“Here you are.” 

And I crack it open with a long sip. 

The kids have already started to fight—something about Hugo stealing Emma’s pool float when she wasn’t done using it. I could step in, but I’ve been trying to let them resolve things on their own lately. Otherwise they’ll never learn. 

“You’re doing a really good job with them,” Chloé snaps me out of my trance. 

“What, that?” I laugh and point to the whole debacle, “You would call that a good job?” 

“You know what I mean, Adrien,” she playfully whacks me on the arm, “Emma is so polite and well-behaved, and even the boys are more dignified than I could ever hope to get two little boys to be.” 

“So dignified.” 

Hugo is literally taking a bite out of Louis’s arm as we speak. 

It doesn’t seem to be bothering Louis too much though because his curious little mind still finds a way to ask a question:

“Hey, Aunt Chloé, can I ask you something?” 

“Go for it, little bean sprout.” 

“How are you related to us again?” 

He asked this same question twice last week, but it would seem he’s already forgotten the answer. 

“Oh, well I’m not actually related to you, silly. Remember? I’m just like a really good family friend.” 

“Oh yeah,” Hugo adds, “One of mom and dad’s superhero friends.” 

“Right,” and Chloé’s voice suddenly gets really quiet, and I can feel her nervously side-eying me. “One of mom and dad’s superhero friends.” 

It’s still not something Hugo has fully wrapped his head around—I’m not even sure Emma’s really gotten it yet. They watch these Saturday morning cartoons where a bunch of young people in latex suits fight bad guys with special powers—Hugo’s even got the action figures to back it up. But for them I’m not sure they can distinguish the cartoons from the newsreels and footage they see of me and their mother doing the same. Maybe all of it seems real to them. Or maybe none of it does. 

“So you guys were really superheroes?” Louis probes, always the skeptic. “Like Batman or Doctor Strange or something?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Chloé chimes in. She always tries to make things as murky and vague for them as possible. “Heroes in our own special way. Just like how you were a hero that one time when you rescued that grasshopper from being eaten by a spider, little bean sprout.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t have a special suit or fancy powers when I did that.” 

“Those things don’t make you a hero,” Chloé points inward, “It’s your heart that counts. Where’s your heart at?” 

But Louis just gives up and turns his pool float away from us, knowing that she’s not going to tell them the whole truth. 

It gets awkward there for a second. Emma and Hugo have stopped fighting, and now they’re just nonchalantly eying each other every now and then. Chloé’s a nervous wreck, clearly, but I don’t want to let her stay that way. Nor do I want all the fun to be spoiled for the kids.

“Guess what I brought?” 

I reach into my right pocket and watch all their eyes light up like sparklers. 

“The starfish?!” 

“Yes, the starfish,” I reel my arm back, “Now close your eyes, and I’ll throw this somewhere into the deep end.” 

Hugo and Emma are stout and ready, but it’s an unspoken acknowledgement that Louis is too young to really participate and needs to stay in the shallow end. He loves watching though. And he calls himself the score keeper even though we never really keep score. 

I chuck the plastic starfish into the water and keep them both dangling in suspense until it sinks to the bottom. 

“Go!” 

“GOOOO!!!” Louis screams at some unholy frequency. He gets both Chloé and me wet when he slaps his arms all over the surface of the water. 

The two of them dive down into the deep end—Emma like a graceful dolphin and Hugo like a sloppy, out-of-control submarine. It seems pretty close at first, but it’s always abundantly clear who the winner will ultimately be. 

Emma darts back up to the surface, and Hugo follows, nearly out of breath. “Got it!” she parades the starfish around in the air.

“Dammit!” 

“Whoa, Dad!” Louis’s mouth hangs open in disbelief, “Hugo just said a bad word!” 

I was going to reprimand him, but Chloé beats me to it. 

“Young man!” she gasps, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

But Hugo negates the situation as usual. “I don’t get it,” he slaps the water, “I’m a boy, I’m supposed to be able to swim faster—how come she always wins?” 

“Hugo, it’s not about being a boy or a girl,” I laugh, “Emma’s just been working on her technique. That’s why she’s faster.” 

“See?” she grins, “I told you that all that time spent swimming while you were up there eating would pay off.”

Chloé and Louis laugh, and Hugo is left there to fry in his anger for about five minutes until he forgets he ever lost. 

There’s a little TV connected to the house by an extension cord, propped up on a rattan table. We rarely watch it, but Chloé usually has it on the cooking channel or some other kid-friendly channel as background noise. She quickly regrets having it on today though. 

“Look!” Louis points, “It’s you! You and mom!” 

It seems like there are no commercials today. Just little snippets of old videos and old interviews, all expounded on by Nadja Chamack. 

“Oh, well, let’s just turn that off,” Chloé scrambles for the remote, but she can’t seem to find it. 

“No,” Emma shakes her head almost cathartically, “I wanna see.” 

“Me too,” says Hugo. 

I can tell Chloé’s looking to me for some kind of approval, but I think I’m already too far gone. 

“Three years to the day it’s been,” Nadja eyes the camera solemnly, while different pictures of Marinette fade in and out of the screen in the back, “Since Ladybug made the brave, life-changing decision to give up her identity as Ladybug to begin a new life as a civilian—one that cost her nearly everything. According to Bugabelle and Night Claw, her reason for doing so must always remain ambiguous to the public, although we’ve brought the two young heroes in today to talk a little bit about Ladybug’s brave sacrifice.” 

“Hey!” Hugo yells, “They’re Bugabelle and Night Claw! I’ve seen them on TV.” 

“Yep,” I say. 

“So cool!” 

“How can you possibly think that, Hugo?” Emma’s ears have turned redder than a ripened tomato. “I hate them.” 

“Emma,” I chastise her, “It’s not nice to hate people.” 

“I don’t care. I hate them. They’re fakers. They’re not you and mom.” 

I could go into a whole spiel about how me and their mother aren’t Ladybug and Cat Noir anymore, so there’s no reason to hate these kids just for taking on our legacy. But I’d be an idiot to think that has anything to do with the real reason she can’t stand them. 

“Thank you, Nadja,” says Bugabelle, “For having us on the show tonight.” She’s certainly put her own spin on what it means to be Ladybug—the bright red hair, the breastplate, the steampunk vibes, and the new name. Almost as though she’s a different hero entirely. 

“No, we really should be thanking you and Night Claw for coming out tonight to share a little bit of Ladybug’s story with us.”

“It’s our pleasure,” says Night Claw. He’s athletic, black-headed, and oh-so-polite. “If it wasn’t for Ladybug, we wouldn’t even be here right now, stopping crime and protecting the city. We consider ourselves incredibly indebted to her, and I think we always will.” 

This is all followed up by a series of questions and highlight reels—I know the kids are dying to know more about what happened, but the whole ordeal is so complicated and shrouded in mystery that I know they’ll be just as confused by the end, if not even more so. 

I think they’re asking me questions, and I think Chloé’s shutting them up. 

But me, I’m not hearing any of it—everything flows in one ear and right out the other because all I can seem to pay attention to is that picture of Marinette—the one in the back. I know exactly what day it was taken on. Because she’s got a scratch on her cheek, and a little bloody gash on her upper forehead. 

“Cat,” she whispered to me not long after that fight was over. Hawk Moth—or my father if you’d rather call him that—had akumatized Aurore Beauréal for like the eighth time. But this time she really had an edge on us. She was super powerful, and she hurt Marinette really badly. We only barely won and narrowly escaped. “I’m really hurt.” 

“I know, Bugaboo,” I said, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m a complete idiot. I should’ve forgotten about freeing the akuma and just jumped in front of that ice shard so you wouldn’t get hit.” 

“No. I can’t have you always risking your life for me. I’ve gotta learn to fend for myself.” 

I knew that there was truth to what she said. As natural as it was for me to just throw everything on the line for her, it didn’t make much sense from a practical standpoint. Something else would always go wrong, and if we wanted to be as effective as possible then we needed to learn how to operate individually, even if our hearts were in it together. 

“I do need to heal though, I think,” she said, “Can you take me back to your house?” 

“Of course, M’Lady. My father’s out on an errand right now. I’ve got snacks, and first aid stuff, and we can just spend the night in, okay?” 

We were supposed to meet up with Marc and Nathaniel that night for dinner, but it was pretty clear that that wouldn’t be happening. 

“Okay,” she nodded, on the verge of falling asleep as it looked. 

I carried her back to my house, doing everything I could to avoid super-fans and the paparazzi—both of whom had gotten so much more persistent lately. 

I snuck her in through my window and laid her down on the bed. 

It was weird seeing her so disoriented and almost emotionless. She was always so focused, so ready to get on to me for some stupid comment or compliment I’d made, even if she was hurt. 

So I knew she must’ve been really, really hurt. 

“It’s not like you to zone out like this just because you got a little beat up out there, M’Lady,” I teased her. Not because I was in the mood to, but because it was freaking me out too much to see her like this. 

I had her leg resting in my lap, and she kicked my chest, just enough for me to feel it. 

There. That seemed a little more like her. Not irritated enough to reprimand me, but not forgiving enough to just let me off the hook. 

“How about that first aid stuff, Kitty?” she had her hands plastered over her eyes like a sleep mask. Was she about to throw up? Pass out? 

“Oh, uh, right. I’m on it.” 

Seventeen years of living under my father's thumb but having everything handed to me meant that I didn’t exactly have a lot of experience taking care of people. When my father got sick, Nathalie was the one to take care of him, so the only thing I had to go off of was the time Nathalie got sick and I offered to look after her. 

I tried my best to explain that to Marinette. 

“Listen, I don’t know how good I am at taking care of people,” I admitted, “I don’t have a lot of practice.” 

“I don’t think just getting someone water or putting bandages on them is something that really needs to be ‘practiced,’” she teased. 

“Maybe not,” and I couldn’t help but crack a smile. I had the bandages in my hand, peeled apart and ready to be placed. 

And she was looking up at me the whole time, her eyes wide and inquisitive. 

“This one’s pretty bad,” I said as I stuck one of the bandages flat against her forehead, “You must have gotten hit pretty hard.” 

“I did. It felt like someone broke glass against my head.” 

“Well that doesn’t sound fun at all,” I patted the bandage down. 

“No, not at all.” 

There were quite a few places on her that really needed to be patched up. I got the ones on her forehead and cheek, but there were some ones on her neck too. I found myself getting pretty focused and pretty meticulous, trying to disinfect them first and then put the bandages on. 

There was this weird tension happening. I was just laying down bandages, right? I was looking at the sores. So why was my heart beating so fast? And why could I feel her looking at me? 

“Everything okay?” I kind of half-laughed. It came out a lot more awkward than I wanted it to. 

“Yeah,” she said, and her eyes never moved, “Everything’s fine.” 

She’d started kind of running her fingers back and forth on my arm. It was so light and so gentle. I could barely feel it through my suit, but at the same time it was hard to concentrate on anything else. 

I still found it hard to believe that after all this time of pouring my heart out to her and trying to win her over, I actually had her. For the first time. She was laying here, right under me, letting me watch over her and take care of her. 

I actually had her. 

My hand found its way into her’s, and I started stroking my thumb over the top of her suit. 

“What’s on your mind?” I asked. Why couldn’t I have asked it in a normal tone of voice? Why did I insist on whispering it? 

“I don’t know,” she turned away from me for a moment, “Sometimes I really regret how I've treated you in the past.” 

“Why?” I asked, “The past doesn’t matter. Only what’s happening right now matters. It’s all totally cool, I’m over that.” 

“But I shouldn’t have taken you for granted,” she said, “You’re always looking out for me and throwing everything away just to save me.” 

“I didn’t today,” I lowered my head in shame, “I mean look at you.” 

“No, maybe not today… but that pain, that feeling of glass being broken against your head… you go through that almost every other day, don’t you?” she pressed on, “Every time you try to save me?” 

I was in no way prepared for this question, and I honestly didn’t know what to say. I was worried she was feeling really bad about herself—like she’d been putting me through a lot. But that’s certainly not how I saw it. 

“Yeah,” regardless, I felt like I had to tell her the truth. “I do.” 

And now her mouth was hanging open in shock. 

“But Marinette,” I said, “It doesn’t even faze me. None of that stuff matters when I think you might be in danger. The only thing that matters is protecting you.” 

She stared down at herself and then back up at me, and with the way her whole face was quivering under that mask I could tell the wheels in her mind were turning. 

“You’ll always be there to protect me, won't you?” she said it like it was a realization and not a request. 

I smiled down at her and squeezed her hand tighter. “Always,” I told her. 

At the time I didn’t really think anything of it—she’d just taken an ice shard to the head after all, so it wasn’t totally unreasonable to assume that maybe she was feeling extra alert or emotionally charged. But it didn’t strike me as being something other than a standalone instance—something that wouldn’t change many things for us in the future. 

But I was wrong. Because almost everything changed after that. 

I won’t say that Ladybug got rid of her snark—and neither did I. Picking on each other was just part of the fun, and it would’ve felt altogether unnatural for us to just turn into one of those lovey dovey couples who never felt comfortable taking the occasional jab at each other. But the jabs after that were more light-hearted. And somehow every time she reprimanded me or called me an idiot, I knew it wasn’t because she was angry or resentful towards me. More often than not it was because I’d found some new way to risk my safety for her—whether that meant pushing her out from in front of a train or becoming a human shield for her—and she knew there was nothing she could do to stop me. 

Back in the lounge area, I hear a click and a snap, and the sound of the kids basically screaming at Chloé for shutting off the TV. I don’t know how long I’ve been out of it, or what all was said—but Emma looks like she might cry, and the boys have gone back to hitting and biting each other. Chloé’s trying to calm them down, but she looks helpless and clearly ill-equipped to do so. I know I should’ve probably stepped in, but it was so easy to get carried away in the moment. 

“Guys,” I finally say, “I think we better head home. Otherwise I won’t have time to thaw out the ribs I promised to make you.”

“But Dad,” Hugo’s arms droop so low that he looks like he might melt, “We haven’t even been here for that long. And I didn’t even get a popsicle.”

“We’ve been here long enough. And I’m sure Aunt Chloé won’t mind if we swing by the kitchen and get you guys some popsicles, right, Chlo?” 

It was a vain attempt to get her to snap out of it.

“Oh,” she says, “Well—of course! I just froze a new batch yesterday, and I’ve got lemon, blue raspberry, and chocolate.”

“Gross,” Louis shivers, and the other two climb out of the pool looking like a couple of prunes, “What kind of person wants a chocolate popsicle? Popsicles are only supposed to be fruit flavored.” 

But he just got that from his sister. It was only his last visit that he ate a chocolate popsicle. 

On the way home, Emma assumes position and turns her body so far away from me that I have to tell her to sit up straight—she lets out a loud sigh but obeys. Her being upset isn’t worth getting seriously hurt over in the off chance that we happen to get in an accident. 

The drive is long and quiet. Never in my life did I think I’d find myself wishing that Hugo and Louis were up to their usual antics in the backseat. But I’d rather listen to that than the sound of fingernails clicking against a car window and loud breathing. I’m the dad here. I should be able to think of something to say to lighten the mood. 

But I just can’t. 

We pull into the driveway, and as soon as we get inside, I head straight for the freezer. I’m no amazing chef—everything I know I learned from Tom and Sabine, and baking is what they do best. But of course Hugo won’t touch something that isn’t meat with a ten foot pole, and Emma’s had this growing concern that her arms are too bony or “chicken-like.” I think she wants to put on a few pounds. But I doubt that’ll last long. 

Luckily, I stumbled on the epiphany that ribs are something that all three of them will enjoy. Obviously we can’t have ribs all the time, because what kind of awful diet would that be? But it is Saturday. And I do hate the way they’re all looking at me right now—like someone just ran over their pet. 

“Dad,” Louis plants his chin on the countertop, “Why do we have to wait so long?” 

I almost drop the ribs as I take them out of the freezer. 

“What do you mean, buddy?” 

“The ribs. Why does it take so long to thaw them out? I’m hungry and I want to eat them right now.” 

“I know,” I say, “But they’re not ready yet. They have to get warmed up first. We have to let them sit until they reach at least room temperature. And then I’ll put them on the grill.” 

He doesn’t say anything. The answer doesn’t satisfy him. And from the way Hugo and Emma are on the couch with their backs facing me, sitting so quietly you could hear a pin drop, I know they’re not satisfied either. They’re tired of waiting. 

I rack my brain. 

“The good news is that I lied the other day,” and they all turn around to look at me with wide eyes, “When I said I gave you guys the last little bit of cheese we had. Because I’ve actually been keeping a secret stash in my pocket.” 

“Dad!” Emma leaps from the couch and runs into the kitchen, “Why didn’t you tell us? I was dying for some more cheese earlier this morning. What kind is it? Brie? Gouda?” 

She prides herself in enjoying delicate cheeses—it’s something that Chloé taught her was a sign of being a grown and sophisticated woman. 

“Seriously, what kind?” 

“How about Camembert?” I say, and she starts jumping up and down on the tile as I divvy out her share of it (she’s probably getting too old to literally jump up and down when she gets excited, but I can’t bring myself to stop her). 

Now the kids are looking happy. Even Hugo has broken his meat-only rule to enjoy some cheese. 

“I think the ribs might be ready now,” but I feel them just to make sure. “I’ll go put them on the grill.” 

The kids seem to be able to bond over food—it’s like some magical force that keeps them from raising their voices or pulling each other’s hair out. And it’s only when that happens that I trust the situation enough to leave them in the house by themselves. If I wanted, I could bring them out here and force them to stare down at their socks while I flip ribs, but I’ve really started to value “me time” lately. I must be getting older. 

When the ribs are done cooking, I step inside to see all three of them already waiting eagerly at the table, and I know they’ve probably been there since I left. Clearly the cheese was not enough. 

“Are they ready, Dad?” asks Louis.

“Yeah, they’re ready.” 

I set them down in the middle of the table, and everybody digs in. I have to stop Hugo from grabbing three pieces at once because there has to be enough to go around, and he needs to understand that. Louis asks me to cut his for him. He’s had this weird irrational fear of choking, which really doesn’t make a lot of sense because I’ve seen him tear into things twice his size without even having to think about it. 

“So Hugo,” I say with a full mouth. Dinner is when I usually try to get to know them better—like what they’ve been thinking and what’s been going on with them. “Louis woke me up this morning and said that you beat your high score yesterday.” There’s this first-person-shooter game he’s been borderline obsessed with. 

“Yeah, I beat it,” he shrugs it off, but he’s trying so hard to contain his smile. “I got in 26 kills in just three minutes. I don’t mean to brag, but you should’ve seen it. I checked the leaderboards after I beat it, and now I’m in the top 75th percentile.” The only time he talks like this is when he’s talking about video games. 

“That’s awesome, Bud. Well now you’ve gotta defend your title. Someone else could come along and knock you down to the 74th percentile. And we wouldn’t want that.” 

“Dad,” Emma cuts me off before Hugo can say anything, “Don’t you think it’s kind of bad to let Hugo play video games as much as he does? I mean he never hardly goes outside, and I’m pretty sure your brain will rot if you don’t give your eyes a break sometimes.”

“Oh shut up, Emma,” Hugo’s voice gets about five pitches deeper, “You don’t know anything. Video games are awesome and the only reason you don’t like them is because you’re a girl, which means you suck at them.” 

“Dad!” Emma insists that I come down on him for that, “He just said that girls aren’t good at video games. That’s totally sexist!” 

This might be the first time she’s actually thrown that word out in a meaningful way and in a correct context. 

“Hugo,” I mouth as I swallow, “There’s no need to talk to your sister that way. She was just expressing her concern. And she’s not wrong. I probably should be limiting your gaming time more than I already am.” 

“See?” Emma leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. 

“But Emma, you need to cool it with the ‘being-your-brothers’-keeper thing. It’s not okay to constantly be worrying about them and correcting them. You really need to just worry about yourself.” 

And then she shrinks back, much to her brother's delight. I appreciate her sense of responsibility, and even her brother’s boldness, but I have to make sure I’m not raising a self-righteous person or a misogynistic jerk. I’m hoping these kinds of outbursts will happen less the older they get. 

And as usual, it’s Louis who takes the conversation in an entirely new direction.

“Wasn’t Mom really good at video games?” 

Hugo drops the ribs he’s chewing on, and Emma gets noticeably quiet. 

I can’t help but smile at him. He’s so wide-eyed and curious, just like he always is anytime he asks about Marinette. He’s the youngest, so he’s probably learned more about her from the stories I’ve told him than he has from being with her in real life.

“She was,” I say, “Better than me, even. When we were in high school, she even helped one of our classmates win a gaming tournament. She was always so shy and humble until someone gave her a controller. Then it’s like she got super bold and competitive out of nowhere.” 

I know it probably embarrasses them to see me all red in the face like I probably am right now. But I can’t help it. She was so obviously Ladybug—the whole time. And Ladybug was her. How did it ever take me so much time to realize? 

“That’s so awesome,” says Hugo, “Mom is so awesome. Who else has a mom who’s a superhero and a gaming legend? I wonder what she’d think of my high score,” he gets all bashful, “She’d probably say it was awesome. And that I’m awesome.” 

Emma says nothing. 

And now I just patiently wait for Louis to drop the inevitable bombshell. 

“I wish I got to know her better. And I wish she didn’t leave.” 

He doesn’t say things like this often, but when he does, the tension is palpable. And everyone gets quiet. Like he just said something taboo, or told everyone a secret that he was never supposed to share. 

But at the same time it’s like he speaks for all of us. 

“I know,” is all I can say.

But he doesn’t just stop there. He has to keep going with it.

“I really miss her.”

“I know, Buddy. We all do.”

“I want her to come back. I’m tired of waiting. She said that maybe someday she would come back. But she hasn’t.” 

And out of nowhere I get these awful chills, and I feel my stomach drop, and I immediately lose my appetite. 

“She will come back,” Hugo says with a ray of confidence, “Don’t you people have any faith? I do. She said she was coming back and I believe her.” 

“Then why hasn’t she come back yet?” 

“I don’t know,” he shrugs it off like it’s some inconsequential issue and not something that severely bothers him, “I’m not Mom. But I’ve seen the footage. Mom isn’t some whiny, depressed quitter. She’s a freaking superhero. She’s not just going to give up because of some stupid memory loss. She’ll get over it, and then she’ll come back.” 

“But then why did”-

“Just shut up already!” 

And Louis and Hugo drop the conversation as quickly as it came up at the sound of their sister raising her voice and banging her fists down on the table. The air is silent, but her breathing is heavy and visible—like she has to keep panting harder and harder if she doesn’t want to stop breathing entirely. Her face is red, and her ears are on fire. And she’s seething. 

“She’s never coming back. Ever. You’re both complete idiots if you think for a second that she meant what she said. She’s a liar.” 

“Emma,” I scold her. 

But it’s too late for something I say to change anything. She’s already up out of her chair and bolting for the back door. 

I could’ve run after her the moment she left the room, but I felt like I had to console the boys. Especially Louis, who was sliding down into his chair and cowering. 

“She didn’t really mean that,” I tell them, but I know that she did. “She’s just angry. I’m gonna go talk to her.” 

Sometime while we were eating, it started raining outside. Not light rain, but the kind that surges down and absolutely drenches everything in its path. This kind of rain would usually send Emma screaming and running back inside because she hates being cold and the way water frizzes out her hair. But she doesn’t budge, not even an inch. She’s sitting on the garden rock, the one I picked out and landscaped specifically for times like these; times when someone needed to sit and think. 

But sitting and thinking on this isn’t going to make Emma feel better, and I think both she and I know that. 

The rock is wide enough to seat two people, and I join her. I half-expect her to hit me right off the bat, or to at least tell me to go away. But she doesn’t. I think she’s too upset to talk. 

She tends to wear sleeveless shirts in the summertime, and I know she’s probably getting cold. I take off my overshirt and wrap it over her shoulders. It won’t stop the rain from being freezing cold, but it should at least help shield her. 

She’s covering her face with her hands. It’s hard to tell if it’s a natural way for her to express her grief, or if she just doesn’t want me to see her cry. Probably both. Either way, I don’t ask her to talk. I just wrap my arms around her and let her cry into my shirt instead. 

I knew days like this were coming. 

When I came out here, I wasn’t expecting to get all upset myself. I’ve already done my time crying, and praying, and bargaining. Actually, I’ve been pretty proud of myself for thinking positively and doing all the things my therapist said to do—“Don’t isolate yourself. Spend plenty of time with your kids. Focus most of your time and energy on them. Avoid going to places that remind you of her, and avoid substance abuse.” It’s been going great. I stopped sleeping till the late afternoon, I quit drinking, and my relationship with the kids has never been better. But I don’t know. It’s cold, and raining, and my daughter’s sobbing into my arms because she knows her mother is gone and never coming back. 

And it’s just a lot. 

“Dad?” she asks, peeling her red and soggy face off my shirt. “Are you crying?” 

“Yeah.” And I just nod. 

And now what was meant to be me coming out here to lift her spirits has become more of a mutual thing. But not a mutual lifting of spirits. More like a mutual mourning. A mutual crying, a mutual remembering, and mutual just sitting here and trying to accept it. 

We do that until the sky clears and the rain stops, leaving us looking pretty ridiculous to any neighbors or pedestrians who might be passing by. It’s wet and uncomfortable for sure, but I think it’s kind of a blessing in disguise. Because somehow it squeezes a smile out of both of us. 

“We probably look pretty ridiculous, don’t we?” I ask her. And I reach up to feel my hair. It’s matted and stringy. Her’s is big and bushy. 

“Yeah,” she scrunches her nose and strokes her own hair like it’s an animal at a petting zoo and not attached to her body, “I feel like a wet poodle.” 

“Me too. Wanna go inside?”

“Yeah.” 

And we both get up. 

There’s nothing Emma hates more than when her brothers pick on her for getting “overly emotional.” I hate it too, and I get onto them each and every time they badger her for it. They’re still young—younger than she is—and I don’t think the gravity of the situation has dawned on them in the same way that it has on Emma. So I’ve made it clear to both of them that there will be consequences for putting others down for crying or being upset. That goes for all of us. 

Emma knows that, but she’d rather just save all of us the time and energy by wiping her face all over her shirt and coming into the house as a new and rejuvenated person.

I’m not so fortunate. 

“Why do you look so tired, Dad?” asks Louis. He and Hugo had apparently resolved to play video games for however long me and Emma were outside. 

“I’m not tired.” 

“Yeah you are,” Hugo gets up from the floor and draws far too much attention to my face, “You look all groggy, and you’ve got wrinkles around your eyes. Have you been crying?” 

I just roll my eyes and ignore the question. Luckily, Emma comes in for my defense. 

“He is tired,” she smiles, knowingly. “And we’ve been dragging him around town all day. Why don’t we let him get some sleep?”

Sleep. It’s one of my favorite words and something that seems like a far off memory these days. Just the thought of it makes me briefly forget everything that’s been ailing me today. 

“Really?” I ask, “You guys think you can handle yourselves okay for a few hours if I hit the hay?” I know that if I fall asleep, there’s a good chance I’ll just sleep through the night and won’t wake up to make sure they brush their teeth. 

“Yeah,” Emma nods as though I’ve entrusted her with some grand responsibility, “We’ll be alright.” And I know she means it. 

“Alright,” I say, “Well, goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Dad.”


	2. The Ballad of the Ladybug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrien revisits some of his favorite memories of his time spent with Marinette, and Louis asks him a question that he won't soon be able to shake.

Three Years to the Day

Chapter Two: The Ballad of the Ladybug

There’s usually a whole list of things I do before going to bed. I like taking late night showers, and I’ll typically make myself some jasmine tea and then read or check my newsfeed for like an hour. But tonight I don’t feel like dealing with any of that. I strip down to my boxers, throw my street clothes into the hamper and topple into bed like a kid on the first day of summer vacation. 

When I turn off the lamp on my nightstand, the moon hits the ceiling just right—so that there are all these little angles of light scattered all over the place like a fractured mirror. Usually it’s too hot in this house for me to sleep easily, but I’m still wet from the rain, and it feels perfect. I stretch out my arms and then fold them behind my head. I hope to fall asleep soon, but I know it’ll take some time. So I surrender to the view of the ceiling. And whatever thoughts it may bring. 

My therapist had suggested moving to a different house, but it wouldn’t be financially feasible unfortunately. I gave away most of my father’s money to shelters and local charities. I just didn’t feel right keeping it, and I didn’t like being reminded of him. But I also don’t like being reminded of everything I shared with Marinette in this house—and especially this room. 

I sleep in the middle of the bed now. It’s to remind me that I don’t need my own side of the bed anymore. Not because Marinette isn’t there on the other side. But because I’m tired of feeling like half of a person. That’s another thing my therapist said: “Wipe the idea of soulmates and other halves from your mind.” Get rid of your friendship jewelry, and couple mugs, and whatever other shared memorabilia that will reduce you down to a half, and try your best to become a whole. 

So I do my best to not think about those things. I tell myself that she’s moved on, and so should I. I’ve entered into a new phase of my life. I’m a single man—I might even call myself a bachelor. I’m not gonna become whole by pretending the pillow I’m cuddling right now is her. That’s not her hair. It’s just those little twisty things that are sewn onto the edges. This pillow can’t laugh at my stupid jokes or look into my eyes until we fall asleep without even realizing it. 

But the lights on the ceiling. They make me think of her, and they’re natural light too—not just something I can get rid of by fixing the curtains or flipping off a switch. I can try to close my eyes and just ignore it, but I can see it even through my eyelids, and even if I did, there would be this beam of light on my nose. And if I pretended there was no light coming through the window or lighting up my ceiling or violating my space then I would be lying to myself. 

But it doesn’t remind me of this room or this house. It reminds me of another room and another house from a long time ago. I don’t have to try very hard to imagine the walls of this place being pink, and purple, and blue. And the light on the ceiling isn’t the only light—there’s artificial light coming from that little lamp on her desk. And this bed I’m in isn’t a bed at all but the little futon we used to hang out on in her room, late at night when her parents would’ve been horrified to find her with a guy. 

Maybe most girls had to hide their boyfriends in their closet or find a way to sneak out of the house to go see them. But we didn’t. Cats are good at climbing in and out of windows, after all. It didn’t matter much if it was 3:00 in the afternoon or 3:00 in the morning. We lost track of time anyway. And she always left the window unlocked for me. 

“Okay,” she said quietly—not right next to me but from behind the makeshift curtain she’d made. We’d talked about doing this for a long time because she thought it would be fun. But I won’t lie, I was worried about the creaking of her floors and the inevitability that we would both start laughing and wake up her parents. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as ever,” I called out to her and tried to sound as much like a judge or a TV announcer as I could in a whispered voice. “Come on out, Miss Dupain-Cheng.”

And she dramatically flailed the curtain away, revealing this orange, gaudy, awful jumpsuit that she’d sewn together with some of her mom’s old clothes and a couple of pillow cases. This was her grand idea—a runway show all modeled by her, featuring the worst outfits that could ever be conceived by her otherwise wholesome mind. I don’t know why she was so excited about it, but she was, and honestly, I loved every second of it. I’d gotten so used to a Marinette who was self-conscious and hard on herself around me that it was a total breath of fresh air to see her being stupid and unapologetically herself. 

“Wow,” I said, and I really did have to hold back my laughter so as to not wake her parents, “That really is something else.”

“Isn’t it?” she admired herself in the full-length mirror and strutted her stuff. “I personally think that this would make a fine addition to the newest line of Gabriel brand jumpsuits, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Agreste?” 

I think this only worked because I myself was a model and found a lot of humor in the way she was talking about fashion and the industry. 

“Oh, for sure. It’ll be its crowning jewel.”

“Why thank you.” She did a couple more twirls just to get the full effect, and then broke character with a laugh. “I still can’t believe you’re a fashion model,” she said. 

She wasn’t talking about Adrien Agreste, of course. She was talking about Cat Noir, which was the only persona I felt comfortable taking on during these late night retreats to her room (in the event that her parents came up, I was not about to jump out of a window or off of a balcony as Adrien Agreste). I guess it was just hard for her to believe that her totally-platonic-partner-in-crime who seemed to her anything but attractive for the longest time really did have the looks and charisma needed to be a model. 

“I don’t know why,” I shrugged and then winked at myself in the mirror, prompting her to elbow me in the chest. “Personally, I’d take a hot guy in a catsuit over some generic blonde twink any day, but that’s just me.” Yeah, I was pretty painfully self aware. 

“Well lucky for me, I get both,” she rolled her eyes in that good natured kind of way, “For better or for worse.”

“Probably just for worse,” I said. 

“Yeah, probably just for worse.” 

We both laughed, and I slid further down onto her futon. It was only just 1:00 AM. I knew I’d be here for a while. Possibly all night if we managed not to wake anyone up. 

“So that’s it?” I looked at the huge pile of clothes that sat at our feet. She’d put way too much time and effort into this, it was kind of crazy. “That’s the end of the fashion show?” 

“Um, not quite,” she stammered and her demeanor quickly changed from sassy and confident to almost uncharacteristically timid. But I’m pretty sure she thought she had me convinced that that wasn’t the case. “I’ve got one more.” 

“Let’s see it then,” I clapped as silently as possible. And then like the immature teenager I was I grabbed a stack of dollar bills from her desk and started throwing money at her. She couldn’t help but reprimand me and laugh. It clearly embarrassed her, but it also loosened her up, and that was always the goal. 

“Okay,” she put both hands behind her back, “But you’re gonna have to close your eyes.”

“Ooh, I have to close my eyes for this one?” I teased her but did as she said. “I guess the curtain’s not good enough anymore.” 

“No, not this time,” she shook her head, “I can’t take the risk of you peeking before I’m ready.” 

“Well I have no idea what to expect,” and I really didn’t, “But I better get ready to take pictures and contain my involuntary laughter.”

“Yeah.” I heard her quiet footsteps head over to the curtain really softly and slowly. “You better.” 

Oh man, how was I ever supposed to keep it together now? If this was the grand finale that was supposed to outdo the jumpsuit, and the fish dress, and the colonial wig? No way was I going to be able to keep the laughter to a minimum. I’d already died like six times and I was unironically worried about getting too loud. I know Marinette was insistent upon cracking me up and giving me a good show—but she’d already done that. And I was starting to worry that the consequences might outweigh the benefits if we weren’t careful. 

“Can I open them now?” I asked when I heard the curtains being drawn back. 

She was moving towards me in large strides, almost rhythmically. If she hadn’t said “wait” then I probably would’ve peaked at her through the slits between my fingers. She was right—I really couldn’t be trusted. But I could sense her now. She was right in front of me. 

“Okay,” she removed my hands from my eyes for me, but I kept my eyes shut nonetheless. Just in case. “You can open your eyes.” 

And as soon as I did, I felt my heart catch onto my chest, and the back of my neck broke into a cold sweat. Because I didn’t know what to say. Because I realized I’d been missing what kind of finale this runway show was actually leading to, and I’d been totally clueless. And now I was left totally speechless. 

I’d been trying to hold my breath to save us from being outed if I laughed. But now I was having to do a full reversal, struggling just to regain my steadiness of breath. Getting serious not because I was going to have to fight laughter, but because Marinette Dupain-Cheng was standing right in front of me in a dress so red, so vibrant, so unique, and so perfectly hand-knit and tailored just for her that there was no way to describe it as anything other than bewitching. And I couldn’t think straight, and I couldn’t talk. It’s like I lost all ability to even function the moment I saw her. 

“Do… do you like it?” she shrunk back a bit, clearly regretting the amount of seriousness and vulnerability she’d approached me with. I think she was hoping I would’ve realized before now what this was all about, but she should’ve known how absolutely dense I could be. I didn’t have a clue. 

But I think seeing her fiddle and shake and kind of cower away grounded me again. I couldn’t just be some drooling mess. Now was not the time to be totally out of it. Never was there a better time to be totally in it. 

I just took hold of her hand, gently but intentionally. And my eyes scanned her up and down. And then I just looked at her. 

“It’s beautiful,” I said, and I reached out to feel the lace strap on her shoulder with my own hands. I couldn’t believe she really made this herself. “I mean you look… I just…” 

There was no point in even trying to be smooth or smart at this point. And I think we both knew that. I was caught too off guard, and there was nothing I could say that could adequately express how she looked. I could call her a literal goddess and I’d only be putting her to shame. But the dress was so pretty, so youthful but at the same time so much more revealing than I could’ve ever expected from her. I knew my whole face must have been burning red just looking at her in that. I could see so much. 

But as enticing and admittedly sexy as she looked in the dress, she’d lost all the playfulness and confidence I’d become so accustomed to from her. She was shaking. She was trying to steady her own breathing. But she was looking right at me, and her eyes were wide but so longing too. It’s like just by looking at me she was crying out for help. Pleading with me. 

She opened her mouth to say something, and I was on the edge of my seat waiting for whatever that was. But she was shaking too much. She was too nervous to get it out. 

“What is it, Little Bug?” 

“I-I’m sorry… I don’t think I can,” and she buried her face in her hands. 

“You don’t think you can what?” 

Now I was just worried about her. She didn’t seem to be having a good time. It’s as though this whole occasion was set up just so she could come out here and feel beautiful and confident in herself. But her own nerves were stealing that away from her. And I hated to see her cave like this. 

I stood up to meet her at eye level, and I’m not sure if that helped or made things worse. But I did put my hand on her back. And I did start running my fingers through her hair. And that did calm her down enough to speak.

“Tonight… tonight was supposed to be the night,” she swallowed hard, “I wanted to finally give myself to you tonight, Cat. I’m sorry. I know I told you not long ago that I wasn’t ready yet. And at the time I wasn’t.” 

“Give yourself to me?” I echoed the words I read from her lips, and it took me a few seconds to figure out what she was implying. But when I figured it out, I’m pretty sure I got just as nervous as she was and my heart was racing just as fast. “Oh,” I said. And I think we’d reached a level playing field with each other. “Really? You really want to?” 

“I don’t know,” she hugged herself, suddenly feeling the need to cover herself up like she wasn’t ready for me to see those parts of her body yet, “I mean I thought I did but now that it’s happening I’m not sure.”

“We don’t have to,” I assured her. The last thing I wanted was to make her feel pressured. “Just because you may have been planning for this night to be ‘the night,’ it doesn’t mean that other opportunities won’t come. There’s no reason we can’t just wait until another time when we’re both more ready.” 

“Yeah…” she said and her gaze kind of trailed off to the wall somewhere. 

And things were uncomfortably quiet there for a few seconds. 

“Are you ready?” she asked. 

“Huh?” 

“I mean, do you feel ready? Like if my nerves hadn’t gotten bad, and I would’ve approached you 100% confidently tonight and told you I was ready instead of stammering like I am now, would you have told me you were ready?” 

She really was not letting up, was she? And now I was stammering too. It was hard to focus. I wanted to say no because I was really, really nervous and I could tell that she was too. But there was another answer swimming around in the back of my mind—that yes, I was ready. I’d been ready since the day I first laid eyes on her. Every aspect of myself and every memory and every fiber of my being yearned for her and everything about her, and sometimes knowing we hadn’t slept together yet made me feel like I was a missing half to a greater whole. And now here she was, and she looked more beautiful and more stunning than I ever thought humanly possible. I tried to maintain eye contact, but it took a lot in me to not let my eyes wander. 

“I…” did she want me to give her what she wanted to hear or did she want the truth? Did she want me to push her back into her comfort zone or pull her out of it? “Yes,” I decided, “I would’ve said that I’m ready.” 

And her face got red all of a sudden, and she let out a sigh. I’m not sure if it was because of anxiousness or relief. 

“Oh… really? You really would’ve been ready?” 

“Yes.” 

I let her chew on that thought for a few moments. Because regardless of how I may have felt, what mattered was how she felt. I may have been ready, but that didn’t matter if Marinette had reservations about it. Far be it from me to ever make Marinette Dupain-Cheng feel anything other than secure and protected. I was going to wait until she was not only ready but enthusiastic. 

“Why don’t we just wait until some other time, Bugaboo?” I grinned at her and kissed her on the cheek. I really wasn’t trying to start anything. “I don’t want you to be super nervous and unsure when we have sex for the first time. I want you to feel beautiful and confident in yourself. Here, why don’t we just watch a movie or something?” 

I turned away from her and leaned down to pick up the remote. But when I turned back around, she was right there, so close our chests were touching. And the top of her little dress was already halfway off of her. And she had on this adorable red and black strapless bra. 

She’d already started kissing my neck, but I pulled away from her so she could see in my eyes how much I wanted her. I knew we were doing this for real now. No more messing around. And I wasn’t about to let this be anything other than an unforgettable experience for both of us. 

She started pulling the lace straps further down her arms. But I stopped her. 

“No,” I put a finger over her lips, “Let me do it.” 

But I didn’t just pull them down like some uncivilized heathen who wants to cut straight to the chase. I didn’t even touch them for several minutes. I wrapped both my arms around her back, and I moved us over to her wall, where I’d have better support, and leaned her against it. And I kissed her, really lightly and just on the lips at first. But then I opened my mouth, and so did she, and I conceded when she led my hand to her chest. I moved my thumb over the lacy edges of her bra, just barely stroking her skin. She was so beautiful, and soft to the touch, and it drove me mad hearing her breaths turn from short and stilted to heavy and vocal. 

I’d spent a lot of time at her mouth, and I wanted to move on to other places. Her cheek, her nose, and especially her forehead—I was sure to make those long and drawn out. Because she loved them. But I sprinkled in some open mouth kisses every now and then. There could never be too many.

When both of our breathing had gotten sufficiently heavy, I stopped for a moment, just closing my eyes and resting my forehead against hers. 

“Are you doing okay?” I asked, and I pulled back just enough to look at her. 

She smiled and leaned against me again. “Yeah,” she laughed, “I’m just really, really nervous.” 

“I know,” I kissed her again and pushed that little bit of hair back behind her ear, “So am I.” 

But she really wasn’t kidding when she said she was nervous. I could feel her bones shaking and her teeth chattering. Like she’d been out in the freezing cold and needed someone to wrap her in warmth. 

“I’m sorry I’m shaking so much,” she said. 

“You have no reason to apologize.” 

“But I”-

“Shhh,” I pulled apart from her and brought her into a hug instead, “Just relax, okay? You’re fine. Everything is fine.” And then it dawned on me once more just what was happening—and I felt her body on mine and her hair brushing against my neck—and I was so happy I could have cried. “Everything is so much more than fine. Just trust me, okay?” And I stepped back, took hold of her hand, and kissed the top of it. “Hold my hand, and if the nerves kick in or the shaking gets worse, just squeeze it. And when we get a little further into it, just hold onto me. As tight as you can.” 

She curled her fingers over the tops of mine and nodded, even through her trembling. “Thanks, Adrien. I do trust you.” 

And she did. I put my hand back on her chest and started kissing my way down her neck—some of the kisses were light and subtle, almost more like soft breaths against her skin. And some were more rough and jagged because I was using my teeth. I wasn’t sure if she’d like that or not, but I think she did because every time I did it she squeezed my hand tighter. 

My lips followed her collarbone down to where one strap of her dress just barely clung to her arm. I put my mouth on it and slid it the rest of the way down, and the other side of her dress toppled downward pretty fast. And now I could see her much better; her chest, her hips, her legs. I was on my knees, arms wrapped around her waist and forehead pressed against her breasts. “Oh my god,” I said, struggling to find the right words to say, “You’re absolutely breathtaking, Little Bug,” and I kissed her stomach. 

She was running her fingers through my hair, and I think something about standing there almost completely naked with me quite literally at her mercy restored some of her confidence. When I looked up at her, I saw her smiling down at me. 

I went in straight for her cleavage area and started kissing her. I was about to slide down her bra when she pushed my head away with a sweet smirk on her face. 

“Easy, Kitty,” she said, and she looked towards the other side of her room where her bed sat high above everything else up in the loft area. “Why don’t we relocate?” 

It sounded like a great idea. I gave her one last kiss and nodded my head. “Let’s go.” 

Trying to climb up the ladder when she was half-dressed and we were both burning with desire was trial-and-error and awkward to say the least. But the second we got up there, and I felt how soft her mattress was and saw how many pillows and cushions she had everywhere, I just kept thinking to myself that this was the perfect place. 

I was relieved when she laid down without getting under the covers. I was more of an in-broad-daylight kind of guy. She was far too beautiful to be kept hidden under sheets, and besides, I wanted to be able to see what I was doing.

I situated myself over her. She breathed in deeply. And everything that happened after that was something straight out of a movie scene—straight out of some fantasy I would’ve conjured up a few years back when I spent nearly every night wishing she was there with me. Because she finally was with me. Not in an outfit I would’ve seen her wear to school, or a superhero suit, or even a beautiful handmade dress. But in nothing at all, totally vulnerable, totally stripped down, and totally mine. And every breath, every kiss, every sharp pain, and nervous laugh, and awkward shift of positions was something I experienced for the first time with her. 

So many amazing little moments that I worried I wouldn’t remember them all (I might have written them down somewhere after the fact just to make sure I’d never forget). She tried to draw my attention away from the big mole on her thigh by covering it up with her hand, but I fell in love with it the moment I saw it because it was a mole no one else had, distinctively hers, and only I would get to see it. My elbow gave out at one point, and we bumped heads, and it hurt so bad, and we couldn’t seem to stop laughing. I told her things I never expected to say to anyone; whispered secret and unspeakable thoughts into her ear—the most romantic things I could think of. She guided my every kiss and touch, and she really did let me go wherever I pleased. I watched her face get red. I watched her shudder from everything she was feeling. And I got to be the first thing she saw once it was all over. 

Of course, I never expected anything to top the real thing. But somehow, the rest of the night did. When we shared that first kiss, both still sweating and still regaining some semblance of control, it was new and different. Because we were new and different. We’d moved on from two bumbling teenagers—two halves—into a whole, two adult people who knew each other better than anyone and knew what we wanted. 

And she just curled up close to me and closed her eyes. But I couldn’t stop staring up at the lights on the ceiling. 

“Marinette,” I said. 

“Hmm?” 

“Are you falling asleep?” 

She lifted her head for a moment but then laid it back down. “Yeah. I think I am.” 

“Well I better leave.” 

“No,” she squeezed me tighter, “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.” 

“But Bugaboo,” I laughed, “You know how bad you are at waking up on time. What happens if your parents come up here tomorrow to find us like this?”

“That won’t happen,” she promised, but she really had no way of knowing for sure. “I promise I won’t let it happen. But I don’t want to be here alone. Please just stay with me.” 

It sounded like a terrible idea. We were risking a lot, but I suppose we’d already risked a lot in almost everything we’d done together that night. I kissed her forehead and closed my eyes. 

“Alright. I guess I’ll stay.” 

That bed felt safe, and warm, and familiar to me, even though I’d never been in it. It wasn’t cold and uncomfortable like the one I sleep in these days. I was optimistic with every impossibility wide open to me. I had a beautiful girl in my arms, and I spent the whole night dreaming of day trips, and surprises, and all these little hypothetical moments I hoped to share with her someday—many of which did come to fruition. But now, I’m left to wonder what my future holds. And I see myself getting older, with my legs getting harder to move around on and clumps of my hair turning grey and falling out. I don’t want to be alone, but it feels better than lying in bed with some stranger who doesn’t have a mole on her thigh. I don’t want to think about the future, but it feels better than retreading memories that are just that—memories. 

I get out of bed, and I regret letting my mind wander. I should’ve known better than to think that I could actually get to sleep three years to the day. 

I look at the obnoxiously blinking alarm clock that sits on my dresser. It’s 10:30. If Emma took her job as seriously as she acted like she took it, then the kids should definitely be in bed by now. It’s not too late for a cold shower, I think. But what kind of thoughts will that bring me? The quick, spontaneous showers we used to take together? I don’t want to let my mind go there. 

I could take a walk around the city. I’d kind of like to. In some ways, there really is no escaping Marinette because we’ve stepped foot on every pebble of every city street in Paris—either as heroes or civilians. Even the sewers are tainted with her memory. There’s no getting away from it. 

But anything is preferable to staying in this room. 

I reach into the closet and take out one of my more casual long-sleeved shirts and some pants. I’m still debating what exactly I want to do—the backyard is always an option, but I’d rather not be taken to the place Emma took me earlier today. Still, I have to remember that I’m not just some guy who can do whatever he wants—I’m a guy who has three small children who have gone on record crying for forty-five minutes straight because I didn’t come and tuck them in. How am I supposed to just up and leave? What if one of them gets out of bed and comes into my room only to find that I’m gone? And with this whole situation with their mom, how is that supposed to make them feel? 

I don’t really know. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I’m thirsty—absolutely parched. So I change and head straight to the kitchen to get bottled water. Hugo doesn’t get why I can’t just drink it from the tap, but the taste of the minerals and impurities just grosses me out. And yes, he does make fun of me for it. 

It’s incredibly dark in the living room. I always leave on one lamp and turn on the porch lights so people will be able to see if they need a snack or to get up and use the bathroom. But I know all Emma was worried about was making sure her brothers did what they needed to—house lighting was not something that had even crossed her mind. 

But when I go to turn on the lamp, my skin crawls and I’m taken back to all those times in my childhood when I swore I saw a demon or the ghost of some small kid lurking in the corners of my father’s house or at the foot of my bed. It may as well have been—Louis with his razor teeth and huge green pupils wasn’t any better. 

“Geez, Louis,” I shook, “What are you doing up out of bed? I swear, you almost gave me a heart attack.” 

“Sorry, Dad. I know you said you didn’t want me sneaking up on you like that anymore.” 

“Yeah, and do you see why?” I grab his hand and place it on my arm, “You feel that? Those are goosebumps. And my hair standing up by itself. That’s what you do to me every time you approach me in the middle of the night with no kind of warning or notice or anything.” 

He looks at me like I’m crazy, but only because he’s too young to have ever seen any of the awful movies where kids wake up in the middle of the night and decide to murder their parents in their sleep. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. And I know something must be up because he’s sucking in his cheeks and staring down at the floor. 

“It’s okay,” I shrug it off, “But really, why are you out of bed? It’s late.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmares again?” 

“Mhmm,” and he hugs himself. Almost like it’s a weird, alien experience to have nightmares and not something that makes him human. 

He’s been having them for weeks now. Usually something about being in complete darkness or a tiny box that he can’t get out of—never the typical monsters or ghosts. I feel awful about it, but there’s not much I can do besides invite him to come sleep in my bed, which he hates doing because it makes him feel childish. 

“I’m sorry, Buddy,” I kneel down to reach his height and scruff up his hair a little, “You wanna tell me about it? Or would you rather not?” 

“It wasn’t scary or anything,” he shrugged, “Just weird. I was in this big grey place with no walls that went on forever. And I was by myself. And I kept calling out to you and Emma and Hugo but no one was there. But I thought I saw Mom. So I ran towards her and kept screaming, but the closer I got to her the more quiet the screams got. And then I couldn’t say anything no matter how much I wanted to.” 

It’s this kind of thing that makes me want to ask my therapist if she does consultations with children. Half the stuff he dreams up is something straight out of an indie horror short film, and I just don’t know how to even begin to approach it. 

“That… that is pretty weird,” I say, not wanting him to dig too deep into it, “Well do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep? If not, I’ll stay up with you and watch a couple episodes of something for a while. You just can’t tell Emma and Hugo that I let you stay up this late or they’d kill me.” 

“Thanks,” he shakes his head, “But I don’t want to watch TV.” And then he does that thing where he bites his lip and kind of twists his mouth sideways. “Do you think you could play me a song?” 

He diverts his attention over to the only thing in this house that brings me any joy these days—my baby grand that Mari bought me when we were still living in our apartment in the city. I still don’t know where she got the money from, because we were dirt poor there for a few years. But even if it did empty our emergency fund, I can’t get mad at her for it. It’s the centerpiece of the living room and it plays beautifully. 

“Of course,” I say.

“But don’t tell Hugo. He thinks the piano is stupid and he’d call me a baby for wanting to hear it.” 

“Oh, well he’s just not as sophisticated as you are,” I pat him on the chest and try to pull out the bench as silently as possible. “Everyone likes piano music. It’s good for the soul. And it’ll make you super popular with the ladies.” 

“Really?” his eyes light up. 

“Yup.”

“Cool.” 

It’s an electric grand, so it came with a headphone jack. I don’t know when Louis started developing a taste for classical music, but it’s like every spare moment I get he wants me to play him something—even though I’m so out of practice that I can only play a few songs. I plug in the cord and slide the big, clunky headphones over his tiny head. They make him look like a mouse. 

“Anything specific you want me to play?” I’m just hoping I won’t mess it up horribly since I won’t be able to hear the notes for myself. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, “Do the Ballade de la Coccinelle song.” 

I smile. It’s his favorite one, and not to brag, but it’s mine too. 

“Okay. Let’s see if I can get it right.” 

It starts out in A minor. I know that because I wanted it to sound super somber and melancholic in the beginning. I didn’t know much about writing music. I’d only ever learned classical, and classical tended to be very strict and by the books (at least the kind that my father liked). It wasn’t until I got a little older that I started playing not because my father wanted me to, but because it made me feel alive and free. There was more than just classical: there was contemporary, and jazz, and experimental. Writing this very basic piece of music took hours of watching videos online, and even more hours of slaving away at the keys. But I was determined. 

When I get halfway into the song, Louis closes his eyes and starts rocking his head back and forth. I sense that he lives his daily life with a lot of troubled thoughts and head noise, so I like to think that music takes that all away from him, even if just for a moment. Maybe he’ll learn too. And maybe someday we’ll be able to play those elaborate duets that I used to play with my father.

It’s hard to know if I’m getting the dynamics just right—there are louder parts to the song, and I just hope I’m not bursting the boy’s eardrums. But I don’t think I am. Because right down to the last note, he hums and nods and then finally grins. 

“I love that song,” he says. 

“Me too.” 

“Are you just lying? Or did you really write that yourself?” 

“No, I’m not lying,” I give him a little flick on the temple for accusing me of such, “I’ve told you. I spent like three weeks trying to figure out how to write something for the piano that didn’t sound awful. It took me forever.”

“Oh yeah.” 

Sometimes I wish I could get him to think before he speaks—it’s something they all three seem to struggle with. Louis in particular likes to hurl totally baseless accusations that would probably offend most people. But he is still pretty tiny, so I try to cut him some slack. 

“Dad?” he asks, “Why did you spend so much time writing that song? What was it for?” 

I just smile. Not really out of joy—more so out of frustration, actually. And I fiddle around on the higher notes with just my right hand. “Well… I don’t really know. I think I was just getting desperate.” 

“Desperate?” 

“Yeah,” I shrug, “I was pretty young. Maybe like twenty or twenty-one. And I guess I just got freaked out because everything seemed to be going wrong in my life.”

He closes his eyes again when I start playing with my left hand too. I think he’s only halfway paying attention, but that’s probably for the best.

“My father went on trial for so many crimes that he was sentenced to life in prison almost immediately. It could’ve been worse. They thought about executing him instead of just throwing him in jail. And Paris and even the whole world came to know him as a terrorist—one of the worst men to ever walk the earth.” 

“Well was he?” 

I stop playing for a moment, trying to decide for myself what I actually think about his question. “He… Yeah, he was,” I say, “But he didn’t always seem like it to me. I mean, come on, he was my father.” I wrap an arm around Louis’s shoulder, “How do you think you would feel if you knew that I was responsible for terrorizing and injuring hundreds and probably thousands of innocent people?”

“I… I’d be really upset.” 

“Exactly,” I nod, “And I was really upset. Not only was I really upset, but I was making everything worse for myself. Sure, it was an awful situation, but there were plenty of amazing, supportive people around me who were doing everything they could to make me feel better.” 

“Like who?”

“Tons of people,” I tell him, “Aunt Chloé, and our friends Nino and Alya. Tons of people from around the city too—some that I didn’t even know that well. People were sending us money, and offering to do things around the house, and even cooking meals for us.” 

“Well that doesn’t sound so bad.” 

“It really wasn’t,” I shrug, “But I was. I was getting all bitter and reclusive. Even when we had people over, it’s like I always just wanted to be left alone,” I close my eyes and wish that I could go back in time and kick myself for acting like such a jerk. “And if that wasn’t bad enough… me and your mom got into a huge fight.” 

“What? Why?” he’s never looked more confused, “I thought you guys were supposed to love each other.” 

“We did. But I think the whole situation was getting to be too much for us. We constantly had people over, and no time for ourselves. I know that all she wanted was to be there for me. But I was awful even to her. Anytime she tried to help or did something nice for me I would just push her away.” 

“Why?”

“Because I was an idiot,” I tell him, “A total ungrateful idiot, and I couldn’t see how amazing my life actually was. I was too hung up on my stupid father who was never even really there for me in the first place. I was getting seriously miserable, and I was pushing away everyone I cared about.” 

I realize that I’ve probably raised my voice too much, because he’s scooted away from me on the bench. So I try to calm down a little. 

“Sorry, Bud,” I shake my head, “I guess I was getting too loud.” 

“Yeah. You’re gonna wake up Emma and Hugo.” 

“And that’s the last thing I want.” 

And then I tell him the rest of the story; about how I told Marinette that I needed space, and she felt awful for trying to be there for me, and guilty and like she wasn’t a good significant other for me anymore. And when she left the apartment crying, I didn’t try to stop her. Because I realized what a gross and miserable person I’d become, and she deserved so much better than me.

But I didn’t realize what exactly that decision would cost. Because she wasn’t there anymore, and I didn’t have anyone to sit on the couch and watch movies with, and the scent of her perfume still haunted every corner of every hallway. And I knew I’d made the biggest mistake anyone could ever make. 

“So what did you do?” 

“Well,” I just sigh, “I made the boldest decision I’ve ever made in my life. I just missed her so much, and I realized that I couldn’t stand to be apart from her. Not even for a few days. I knew then and there that I’d always hate myself if I didn’t make it up to her somehow and find a way to bring her back.”

It’s awful but humbling to think of all the trouble I went through to get her to forgive me. Talk about the most masochistic and self-loathing time in my life. I remember lying around the apartment in nothing but a house robe, downing way too many cocktails as I cursed myself for letting her leave and racked my brain for any idea that could make things better. I kept my phone on my chest, and I wanted to call her so many times. But I knew that that wouldn’t be good enough. I was already at my lowest point, and calling and begging for forgiveness was exactly the kind of thing that would make Alya tell her to “dump his ass and never look back.” 

I had the idea of making some fancy meal or dessert from her. But come on, her parents were the best bakers in Paris and nothing I made would ever be able to compare. I also thought about buying her something, but all the money we had had come from our friends (which I’d also treated terribly) and it would just feel like a huge slap in the face to them to use their money to buy something for Marinette. Besides, there would be no heart and no effort there. I had to do something that would help her to understand how badly I wanted her back. 

So I came up with this little elaborate two-part plan. First, I was going to push myself and spend every spare moment I had writing her a beautiful song that I’d play for her on the piano. I was also going to use a small portion of our friends’ money, but not to buy her some cheap gift. I was saving it up for something else. 

Composing the song was much harder than I could’ve imagined. I could play fairly well, but there’s more to songwriting than just technical skill. You have to understand music theory, and mood, and have an ear for what makes something sound beautiful. And it became quickly apparent to me that I lacked all of those things. It took me way too many video tutorials and sleepless nights to write something that sounded even half decent. 

But when I did, I made the leap and decided to reach out to Marinette. 

It was through a handwritten letter. I knew she’d been staying with Alya and Nino because her and Chloé hadn’t been getting along (big shock there), Kagami was out of town with her mother, and staying with her parents made Marinette feel like a kid again. 

In the letter I asked her if she’d come back to the apartment to have dinner with me. I was honest and just told her that I knew I’d messed up, but that I also understood that getting back in her good graces would be no easy task. I’d let a good one go, and I was going to have to do some work if I even hoped to get her back. 

Much to my relief, she agreed to it. But now I had to prepare for her return—get the apartment looking perfectly neat (which was difficult given that I’d neglected the housework), set the table, and cook a decent meal. I got more dressed up for the occasion than I had in a long time. And she noticed. 

“A suit and tie?” she asked when I opened the door for her. 

“Yeah,” I laughed and tried to straighten up my tie when she crossed her arms at me, “What, you don’t like it?” 

“I just wish you would’ve told me,” she took the tie and messed it up again, “All I have is this romper I got from the discount rack at Chloé’s.” 

“You look fine,” we both walked in and I closed the door behind us, “I can’t expect you to always hand-sew some beautiful dress every time something big happens in our lives.” 

She rolled her eyes and playfully hit me on the shoulder. For some reason she was really embarrassed now about the whole losing-our-virginity fashion show thing, and she hated it when I teased her for it. Which was constantly. 

“I really can’t believe I did that.” 

“Why? It was cute.”

“No,” she covered up her face, “It was try-hard and cringey, and totally uncool. I mean who did I think I was trying to be? The star of a bad rom-com?” 

“I think you were,” I winked at her, “And so was I.” 

The passion and romance of our teen years died out pretty quickly once we hit our twenties. She wasn’t some girl next door anymore. She’d become more like my best friend, the kind of person you make DIY crafts with and complain about coworkers to. Sometimes it was more fun to just hop in the sack and get it over with than make some whole dramatic ordeal out of it. 

“So what’s on the menu tonight?” she asked, and I took her sweater. 

“Just some of my famous ham and cheese croissants.” I couldn’t cook anything fancy, but the simple things I did know how to make, I made them really, really well. 

“Well, I can’t regret coming over here now,” she said as she took a seat at the table, “I was really starting to miss those croissants.”

“More than me?”

“Well I assumed that was obvious.” 

Dinner went pretty well for the most part. We just asked each other what we’d both been up to for the past couple of weeks: it was the longest we’d ever gone without seeing each other since the day we first met. With my father in prison, there wasn’t any protecting Paris to do, and there wouldn’t be for quite a while. 

She told me that she’d taken some much needed time for herself and had picked up a couple new hobbies. Pottery was one of them, and she showed me a pot that she’d made and painted herself (and it was pretty impressive). Surprisingly, the other was music-related. She’d learned a little bit of guitar when her and Luka were dating, but now she was going the extra mile and trying to learn how to play it for real. 

“Seriously?” I asked, “You can play the guitar now?” 

“Yup,” she had to just nod, because her mouth was quite literally overflowing with ham and cheese. “I’m not great at it yet. But it’s super fun and I really regret not practicing a lot earlier.” 

“So what, then?” I asked, “Are you gonna be one of those guys now who asks if he can play Wonderwall at every party?” 

“Nah. I’ve got more class than that. I only do folk music and songs with a Latin flair, thank you very much.” 

And somehow through all that, I was able to make the transition to talking about my piano-playing. I told her that I’d been practicing a lot, and I’d love for her to hear some of the new songs I’d been learning. 

“Great. Well then let’s hear it,” she took a sip of water and then burped, “Maybe if the rest of the night goes well and I decide to forgive you, then we can get in some sick duet action next time we see each other.” 

“That’s always the goal.” 

We left the table the way it was: it’s amazing to think that when we first moved in, we were so “adult” and responsible, always immediately cleaning up after ourselves. These days, the sink would get pretty full before we ever bothered to open up the dishwasher. 

I pulled out the bench for her, and I made fun of her when she tripped over the leg of it. 

“I see you haven’t gotten any less clumsy since you left.”

“Oh shut up,” she said, “Just play me the song, lover boy.” 

And I did. I think it took her a minute to get into it. She was used to me playing these really long, complex pieces from Beethoven and Bach and people of the like. This was a lot simpler, and she knew that. But about halfway in, she closed her eyes, much in the same way Louis does today, and I know that the song moved her deeply to her soul. I’d always loved serenading her like this. But nothing I played had ever garnered this kind of reaction from her.

I did a couple more octave shifts, a couple more arpeggios, and then ended it in a closed cord, holding the damper pedal out until the sound had the power to ring throughout the room. She had her hands folded up over her chest as though she wanted to clutch her heart. 

“Adrien,” she didn’t know where to start, “That was amazing. I’ve never heard you play anything like that before. I loved it. What song was that?” 

And then I got kind of nervous. Because the second part of my elaborate plan was being put into motion, and I just hoped I’d prepared enough for it—and knew the right words to say. 

“I wrote it,” I told her. 

And she just looked at me, eyes stagnant and mouth open. I’m not sure she actually believed me. 

“You’re kidding.”

“No,” I shook my head, “I wrote it. It’s for you. I’ve spent the last few weeks writing it, and I invited you here tonight because I wanted to play it for you.” 

And she suddenly looked really guilty. Like she’d done something wrong or felt awful and wanted to apologize. But that’s not what I wanted. She’d done nothing wrong. I was the one who needed to apologize. 

“You really wrote that beautiful song just for me?” her voice cracked there at the end, “Why?” 

“Because,” I said, and I got comfortable where I was sitting because I knew this was going to be a long explanation. “I’ve realized something. Something that I never expected to realize at this point in my life.” 

I wasn’t looking at her while I was talking—I was too nervous so I just looked down at the floor. But I could see out of the corner of my eye that she’d started smiling. My favorite smile of all of hers—the really sweet and sentimental one that rarely came out at the time because of all the stress she was constantly under. She placed her hand over the top of mine. 

“I think I’ve realized something too,” she admitted.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” and she let go of my hand to hug herself. “I shouldn’t have gone to stay at Alya’s. When I left and you didn’t come after me, I took it really personally. And I still think you were wrong to not come after me. But I should’ve also been more understanding of the fact that this has been a super difficult time for you. I can’t expect you to be totally rational or the ideal partner right now. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you,” and I knew she was talking about my father. “No one knows what it’s like to be you right now, not even me. No one can imagine what you must be going through. I should’ve been more sensitive to that.” 

“And I shouldn’t have acted like such a jerk,” I immediately followed her up, “You, and Alya, and everyone were doing their part to make sure that I had plenty of emotional support. And I pushed all of you away. This may be a hard time, but that’s no excuse to be awful to the most important people in my life. I’m so sorry, Marinette,” I took her hands into my own, “I was so awful to you, and you’re supposed to be the lady of my dreams. I never should’ve treated you like that, and I just hope that you can forgive me and know that I won’t ever let it happen again.” 

She squeezed my hands tighter, and that’s how I knew I was forgiven. She just looked up at me with those gorgeous bluebell eyes and nodded. 

“So is that what you’ve realized?” she asked. 

And I knew that now was the time. 

“Not everything,” I surprised her with my answer, “I’ve also realized that I hate sleeping alone, and cleaning the kitchen by myself, and not having anyone to pick on.” 

She smirked because she thought she knew what I was getting at—she thought I was just asking her to move back into our apartment. But of course I knew that I wasn’t. 

“Yeah, I guess I’ve missed that too,” she laughed, “I guess I wouldn’t mind putting up with it a little longer.” 

And she stood up from the piano bench, stretching out her arms and legs and preparing to go into one of our forgiveness hugs I imagine. 

“Okay, you win,” she did a little bow, “I’ll move back into the apartment. And I forgive you. I totally forgive you.”

“Good. I’m glad,” and she looked understandably confused when I rejected her hug, “But I don’t just want your forgiveness, and I don’t just want you to move back to the apartment.” 

She did a little frown and crossed her arms. 

“Then what? What do you want?” 

Was I really about to do this? Was this insane and completely stupid, and something that made no sense in light of the fact that there wasn’t even a guarantee that our relationship would continue until right now? Would this just scare her off or make her think that I was being way too forward?

But if there was one thing that Marinette always valued, it was honesty. What kind of man would I have been had I lied to her the minute after she forgave me and took me back? No. I didn’t care if it was crazy or if she rejected me. I wasn’t about to lie to her. 

“I… I love you, Marinette,” I said, because this was the kind of thing that needed to be prefaced. “I love you madly. Dangerously even—so much that it scares me. I am head-over-heels, unabashedly, unashamedly in love with you.”

She just stood there with a pale face, and I could practically hear her heart palpitating through her clothes. I knew she had no idea what to expect.

“And what I’ve realized is this,” I started, “I could’ve lost you. I could’ve let you walk out of this apartment, go to Alya’s house, and never come back. I could’ve never sent you that letter inviting you over for dinner, and we could’ve never seen each other again. It would’ve been really hard for maybe a year or so. We would’ve both needed time to cry and come to terms with it. But then we would’ve both moved on. We would’ve taken some time to heal, gone back out into the world, and then fallen in love with different people who I’m sure we would’ve gotten along with and loved just as much.” 

She looked so nervous, so on edge, and I only wish that I could’ve known what was going on inside her head. 

“And I realized that I would rather spend the rest of my life alone and miserable than spend even one second of it with anyone other than you,” I went on, “You’re my best friend, Little Bug. These have been some of the most miserable weeks of my whole life, and not even because of everything that happened with my father. But because I haven’t had you around.”

“What are you saying, Cat?” but she’d already started crying, and I didn’t want to dangle her in suspense any longer. It took everything in me to not go over there and give her the biggest hug of her life. “Are you trying to ask me something?”

“Yeah, I am,” I just smiled at her, “I’m asking you to please be my wife. Because you’re my everything, and I can’t risk ever losing you again. Not for one second.” 

And by the time my knee hit the floor, she was just sobbing profusely. Like, profusely. As in she had to keep covering up her face and rubbing her eyes over and over again just to keep from looking like a wet, soggy mess. I know she was embarrassed about just how intense her reaction was. But I also know that the embarrassment didn’t override everything else she was feeling. 

“Oh my god,” she said, and I could barely make it out through her hands, which muted it. “Oh my god. Um, okay,” and she sniffed and gasped for air until she was able to form coherent sentences. But even then she couldn’t give me an answer. 

And so, instead of saying yes or no, she kneeled down on the floor and threw both her arms around my neck. 

“So,” I laughed, barely able to breathe because she was squeezing me so tight, “Is that a yes?” 

“It’s a yes,” she nodded, “It’s just… wow, I thought you’d never ask.” 

And then it hit me that I probably should’ve asked her a long time ago. Still, I think it made for a pretty beautiful moment, and I’m glad I waited until we’d both experienced time apart from each other before I asked. Because the time apart just made us that much more sure that this was what we really wanted.

I tend to get way too into my head when I remember moments like these. It takes a pinch, and a snap, and then a literal kick from Louis to snap me out of it. But as usual, he succeeds. 

“Ow,” I rub my leg. That hurt more than I expected it to. “What was that for?” 

“I asked you a question.” 

“What? You did?”

“Yeah.” 

“Well what then?”

And I just tell myself to buckle in because with the way his eyes keep teetering back and forth, I know that whatever he’s about to ask is something difficult or problematic.

“Well… you did it, didn’t you?” 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, she took you back,” and for some reason he says this with an almost suspicious amount of emphasis. “You thought you weren’t going to be able to get her back. But you did.”

“Yeah, so?” 

He crosses his arms like he’s about to make some grand proposal. 

“So,” he says, “Why can’t you do something like that now? Why can’t you bring her back?” 

And my heart stops for a moment. I wasn’t expecting this question, and this certainly isn’t what I wanted him to take away from the story.

“Oh. Well, Louis… I don’t really think this is quite the same.” 

“Why not?”

“Well, because your mother doesn’t remember any of the time we spent together. It would be like trying to convince someone you’ve never met that they should drop everything and come live with you just because.” 

“It wouldn’t be ‘just because,’” he says, “It would be because it was true. She knows it was true.”

“She does,” I agree, “But that doesn’t mean she’s coming back.”

“Why not?” 

He just can’t get it, can he? I guess none of the kids can. They figure if she loved me once, who’s to say she couldn’t love me again? As if there’s not a giant, heaping, all-encompassing problem that prevents there from being even a chance of that happening. 

“She’s just not, okay?” I tell him in a way that’s stern but sensitive, “Anyways, it’s getting crazy late. I never meant to let you stay up this late. You need to go back to bed now and try to get some sleep.” 

He just sits there for a minute, and he doesn’t answer. But then he slides his way off the bench and starts heading back to his room without even saying goodnight. And I instantly regret just telling him to go to sleep after all that without giving him time to digest it all. 

“Well, wait,” I say, “Are you going to be able to get back to sleep okay? Do you want to come sleep in my bed?”

“No,” he just shakes his head, “I’m good.”

And before I can say anything else, his tiny silhouette has disappeared into the shadows and escaped my line of vision. Almost as though we haven’t spent the last hour sitting and talking on the piano bench. 

It’s so dark in here. Darker than it was when I first got up. Not because I can’t see. But because it feels empty in here, and I feel alone in here. I spend all this time trying to be there for them, and then they go running out the door to the backyard or leaving without even telling me goodnight. And I think, are all my efforts enough? Am I actually a good dad like I sometimes think I am, or will they grow up to hate me because I couldn’t bring their mother back? 

It’s too late now for me to take a walk. If I did, I’d just look like some questionable person up to no good—the kind of person you stare at with curiosity from the bus or car and wonder what their story is. So I better save it for tomorrow morning. 

I do exactly what I came in here to do—get some water. And I know that even though my eyes are full of sand and I’m so tired I could fall over on my way to bed, now I’m going to have a very hard time getting to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> All three of the chapters for this story are complete so if you're interested in this story, check in every now and then because I'll be updating every couple of days.


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